


Stoned, Skint, & Cold

by ginger_timelady



Category: British Actor RPF, Late Late Show RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 05:33:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12698394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginger_timelady/pseuds/ginger_timelady
Summary: There were these two young guys in Glasgow named Peter Capaldi and Craig Ferguson in the early 80s. This is what happened between them.





	Stoned, Skint, & Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Prequel to [Old friends](https://archiveofourown.org/works/144246) by [dafna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dafna/pseuds/dafna). Many thanks for the encouragement to write this, my first RPF and first explicit fic.

_Glasgow, Scotland. October 1981._

It's a quiet night for Craig and Peter. They're sat at the bar of a scummy pub, drinking cheap lager and sucking on cigarettes, still recovering from last night's gig. Neither of them is in a particularly talkative mood, so mostly they just contemplate their lager, the ashtrays, the barmaid with the fantastic tits, and – more occasionally than Craig would like to admit – each other.

They've known each other two and a half years now. It's been fun, a blast, playing in a band together. Gigs, pubs, squats, parties. Dropping acid, toking spliffs, boozing it up. Peter singing lead, practically making love to his Strat (“her name's Liza, and the man who insults Liza will have a size 10 Doc Marten so far up his arse that there'll be bootblack on his fucking kidneys”) while Craig does his best impression of Animal from _The Muppet Show_. Peter's 22, Craig is 19, neither of them has much luck with the birds – Peter hardly seems interested at all, so far as Craig knows, he's never even kissed one, much less shagged one – but who cares, when there's booze, drugs, and music?

Peter looks up from his lager, takes a drag off his cigarette, and looks directly at Craig. It's almost unnerving, thinks Craig. Those huge blue eyes, with the massive dark eyebrows above. His face is lean, like the rest of him, with sharp cheekbones. Pale, too, especially framed by that massive tumble of dark curls. And the mouth is almost indecent – full and pretty, too pretty for a bloke.

And yet.

Lately Craig can't stop thinking about the mouth. Or the everything else – the tall, lanky body; the long, artistic hands; even whatever it is lying hidden beneath those tight jeans. And Peter? Well, there are those sidelong looks. The held glances, lasting just too long. A touch on the back, a too-hearty embrace. It's awkward, but what's a bloke to do? Craig's confused. Maybe Peter is too. Peter doesn't come off as a bender at all, and Craig knows himself well enough that he knows he wants women. But damn if lately – not that he'd admit it – it's Peter's face, with those indecent lips, that has been foremost in his mind when he pulls himself off. Not that he'd admit to that either. No man will admit to being, literally, a wanker.

“Want to come back to my flat, Craig?” says Peter softly. Craig nearly spills his lager. Suddenly Peter is speaking in his ear, that damnably soft hair tickling him, his breath all too warm.

“I don't know, Pete,” says Craig. Of course he does.

“I've a soap bar of Kashmir Brown and Scary Monsters. You're not going to let me keep it all for myself, now, are you?” he says.

“Fuck no I'm not, you bastard,” he retorts, telling himself that it's only the lure of good hash and Bowie that's drawing him to Peter's flat. He crushes out his fag in the ashtray and drains his lager.

“Good lad,” replies Peter, and puts a hand to the small of Craig's back, as if to guide him out. Craig can feel the light touch even through his shirts and his leather jacket, and it sends a thrill straight up his spine. In response, Craig grabs Peter by the arm and pushes him toward the door.

“Lead on, you tosser,” he says. Peter laughs. Craig walks behind, most certainly not admiring the surprisingly nicely shaped arse beneath those tight as sin jeans, nor the wonderful way the leather jacket hangs on his shoulders.

It's a short walk to Peter's flat, but it's still miserable. Fucking Glasgow. It's October, it's raining, and it's fucking Baltic. 

“Fucking hell, Pete. Can't be much above zero right now,” grumbles Craig. “And you with no central heat in that fucking flat of yours. What are we going to do, warm up around a fucking fag?”

“Pack it in, you doss cunt. I'm not on the ground floor. Heat rises, I've blankets, and I might happen to have a bottle of Famous Grouse on hand. That'll warm you up right quick,” Peter replies. Craig smiles. He knows that his capacity for booze has become near legendary, and him only one year over drinking age.

“Right. We're here.” Peter lets himself in the front door and heads up the stairs and down a corridor. At the end, he unlocks the door to his flat.

It's not much of a flat. One room, not counting the tiny bathroom, with a dingy kitchenette, a sofa, a double bed, a record player, one shelf for LPs and another for books, an end table, and a nightstand. Posters on the walls: Bowie, Iggy Pop, Lou Reed, The Clash, The Skids, Joy Division, The Buzzcocks. Clothes in a heap in the corner. A bong in plain sight on the end table.

Peter hangs his beloved leather jacket tenderly on the back of his front door, and Craig does the same. Craig thinks that either Peter has more tolerance for the cold than he does or he's mad; all he's got on now other than his well-loved Doc Martens and gorgeously tight jeans is a thin t-shirt. Craig at least has a thermal shirt underneath his own t-shirt.

“Still freezing, Craig?” says Peter.

“Aye,” he says, and he's not kidding. His teeth rattle a little.

“Here,” says Peter. He takes a blanket from his bed and wraps it around Craig. For one moment, they're almost nose to nose, looking each other in the eye. Peter lifts his arms as if to wrap them around Craig as well, and Craig holds his breath.

Then comes a sound of glass breaking down in the street, and Peter jumps.

“Fucking hell!” yells Peter.

Craig couldn't agree more, mentally levelling potent curses at whoever had – however inadvertently – spoiled the moment.

“Music,” says Craig. “I was promised Bowie and hash, and I want them, in that order.”

“Aye, well, your wish is my command,” Peter says sardonically, unlacing his Doc Martens. “Get your boots off. Bed or sofa, take your pick. I'll get the music on and fire up the bong.”

Craig does so, stretching out on the far side of the bed. He can't help but notice there's plenty of room next to him for Peter, and thanks heaven or whoever that the bed is long enough for his own tall frame. But then, he and Peter are nearly the same height.

“Sit up, love,” says Peter. “I'm told this is some potent shit.” Craig does so, still wrapped in the blanket. Peter hands him the bong, and Craig fumbles his lighter out of his jeans pocket, fires up the bong, and inhales. Peter grabs another blanket and wraps himself in it, even pulling part over his head like a demented sort of hood. Craig passes him the bong, and he inhales deeply. They pass it back and forth a few more times, inhaling reverently, and then Peter puts it out and places it carefully on the nearby nightstand.

“Easy, there. That's all we need,” Peter says.

“Mmm,” says Craig. He tries to stretch back out on the bed and succeeds only in falling such that his head is in Peter's lap. Normally he'd blush, but who cares? No one can see them, the blanket is warm, and David Bowie's voice is all over him, inside him, inhabiting him from head to toe.

“Aye,” says Peter, his voice soft. “Budge up, I want to lie down.” He attempts to push Craig over to the other side of the bed, but his arms don't seem to be working so well. No matter, Craig manages to roll over, and Peter collapses next to him.

Craig doesn't know how long they lie there next to each other, lost in the music and the blankets and all the everything else. He knows that the music is sublime, that the blanket is warm but slightly scratchy, that Peter is next to him and a warm presence, and he smells of hash, tobacco, aftershave, soap, and a hint of lager. Oh, God, this is potent hash.

Peter reaches over and puts his hand on top of Craig's. Craig is somehow unsurprised and doesn't resist, doesn't pull away. Instead, he squeezes the hand and doesn't let go. It's warm, it's long, it's fine-boned, with surprisingly long nails. It's intriguing, this hand. He strokes it gently, then strokes Peter's wrist. Amazing, the thin skin, the tendons, the bones, the veins. Peter softly sighs.

“Fucking top gear, Pete,” says Craig. It's all he can think to say right now.

“Aye,” says Peter. He rolls onto his side and touches Craig's face. Craig rolls over to face him.

“Pete,” he says, his voice nearly a whisper, and touches Peter's cheek. He feels the rough stubble, and takes Peter's face in both hands. And he doesn't know who moves first, and maybe it doesn't matter, because suddenly their mouths are pressed together, tongues battling at first but then moving together in concert. Peter tastes amazing, sweeter than Craig would have thought, what with his cigarette habit and the lager they drank earlier. But there's something even sweeter hiding there, even with the lager and the cigarettes, and Craig is hungry for it. He runs his tongue under Peter's upper lip and Peter moans into Craig's mouth.

Somehow they manage to untangle from the blankets, and then there's a mad, awkward fumble of undressing each other while trying to keep their mouths locked together as much as possible. Finally Peter has Craig down to his pants; he flings Craig's jeans over to the corner. Craig's hand goes to Peter's fly and he manages to undo the button, the zipper, and get the damn things off, and...

...oh.

“You're not wearing pants,” Craig says. He's not, and he has a raging hard-on, not that Craig can talk, he's harder than a rock.

“Not in these jeans,” says Peter. He runs his hand down Craig's back and tugs at his pants. Craig wriggles out of them and they land, discarded, on the floor.

“Now we're even,” whispers Peter, and Craig sighs, he's never been naked with a man before but the feeling of skin against skin is beyond description. It's warm, it's gorgeous, it's wonderful. He takes Peter into his arms and they resume kissing. The kissing is like nothing he's ever experienced with anyone else; Peter is passionate as hell, putting every ounce of focus into his kissing even as his hands run over Craig's back, his arse, his hips. Craig can't help it, he grinds his hips into Peter's, their cocks coming up against each other.

“Jesus Christ,” moans Peter. And he moves his mouth downwards, kissing Craig's jaw, his neck, his collarbone. Craig is whimpering, he can't stop, it's not exactly manly but at this point he couldn't give a toss. Then Peter runs his tongue over Craig's nipple.

“Goddammit!” Craig cries. Peter stops.

“Not good?” he says.

“Fuck! Very good! Please, go on, please...” Craig manages to get out. Peter takes the nipple in his mouth and gently sucks on it. Craig is now writhing on the bed.

“Oh, God, Pete, I...oh, Lord,” Craig moans. Peter moves his mouth lower, licking his way down Craig's torso, kissing. Craig can't think anymore, only feel.

Finally Peter positions himself between Craig's legs and gently pushes his thighs apart.

“You want this, Craig?” he says. Craig looks up and into those blue eyes, dark with worry and desire.

“Oh, God, yes, Pete, please, yes. Please.”

Peter lowers his head and gently kisses Craig's thighs, then runs his tongue over Craig's cock. Craig groans, and Peter gently cups Craig's balls in one hand, wraps his other around the base of Craig's cock, and takes Craig in his mouth.

“Oh, God,” groans Craig. “Oh, God. Pete...oh..yes.” He twines his hands in Peter's abundant dark curls, those soft dark curls, and Peter moans into Craig's cock. He moves the hand around Craig's cock, then swirls his tongue around the head. This is too much, and Craig loses it.

“Pete! Oh, yes...” he shouts. He comes hard, right into Peter's mouth, and Peter doesn't let go, he keeps his mouth there, he swallows every bit of it and finally rests his head on Craig's thigh

They don't speak. A long moment passes.

“Craig?” says Peter, shyly. “All right?”

“Better than that,” he replies, his voice ragged.

“Cigarette?”

“I could do with a fag, yeah,” says Craig. "And some of that Famous Grouse you said you might have."

Peter reaches under the bed and grabs a half empty bottle of whisky, takes a swig, and hands it to Craig. Craig downs a mouthful himself. Then Peter picks up his jeans, fishes in the pocket, finds a packet of fags and extracts two of them. He grabs the lighter, and reaches over to the nightstand for the ashtray. He lights two cigarettes and hands one to Craig.

“What about you, Pete?” says Craig. “You must be harder than Superman's kneecaps.”

“Aye, what about it?”

“Can I take care of it?”

Peter laughs. “I'd love it. It's...I've never done this before, you see.”

Craig snorts, and taps ash off his cigarette. “Could have fooled me.”

“What's that supposed to mean, then?”

“I mean, that was the best fucking blow-job I've ever had in my life. And I've had more than a few.”

“Thank you.”

“No, Pete. Thank you.”

They laugh, and finish their cigarettes.

“Right, Pete. Let's finish you off.”

“I'm all for that,” says Peter. “You can wank me off, if you like. I'm not picky.”

Craig contemplates. He's never been with a man, but if he was going to be with one, it would be Peter. He loves Peter, he always will. Maybe not in the romantic way, but yeah, he does love him. And trust him.

“You can bugger me, if you want,” says Craig.

“Christ, Craig! You don't do anything by halves, do you?” says Peter.

“Well, if I were going to be with a bloke, it'd be you. Might as well try it.”

“Hell of a way for me to lose my virginity,” says Peter thoughtfully.

“Me, too,” says Craig. “At least, my virginity with a man. But it would have to be you, Pete.”

And so they do. Peter may not have done it before, but he knows how. He's gentle and slow, he's tender, and Craig finds himself enjoying it immensely, even if he is a bit sore afterward.

There are other nights after that, where they explore each other, where they sleep curled up together against the bitter cold of one Britain's coldest winters on record. They aren't quite lovers, though they love each other. They're mates, they're friends.

The band breaks up, as bands do. Peter gets more into acting, Craig moves to America, Peter meets Elaine. Craig is a little shocked, he had figured Peter would be a bender, but Elaine is the love of his life and Craig can tell. He doesn't begrudge Peter that. They stay in touch and know they'll be friends forever.

And as for Peter losing his virginity to Craig one cold October night in Glasgow? That's their affair, after all. Still, 28 years later, when Peter first walks onto the set of the Late Show, Craig can't help but think of it fondly.


End file.
